


Forever Family

by srsly_yes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Sick!Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson thinks family is the best medicine until House comes to his rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever Family

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N** : Story picks up a few days after 7x8 ends.  
> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/sickwilson_fest/profile)[**sickwilson_fest**](http://community.livejournal.com/sickwilson_fest/) prompt: _Everyone knows that Danny is schizophrenic, but only James knows that it's his other brother that's the dangerous one._ The story drifted slightly away from the original idea. Blame Wilson, he made me do it. My apologies for any medical inaccuracies.  
>  **Beta:** Many thanks to the most awesome beta in the universe, [](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/profile)[**hwshipper**](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/), and to [](http://geekygecko.livejournal.com/profile)[**geekygecko**](http://geekygecko.livejournal.com/)  
>  for listening to my ideas and providing encouragement and advice.  
>  **Warning:** Angst. Slight spoiler for 7x8 Small Sacrifices.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Not mine, never will be.  
> 

A very damp red rose flies through the air and lands on Wilson's desk, splattering droplets over the surface. He controls the urge to wipe up the spatters, remains standing, and chooses to patiently stare at House until he gets an explanation. Most likely an unorthodox, but logical one.

House settles into the sofa and waves at the flower. “Sainted oncology nurse’s birthday. She won’t miss one rose." His eyes scan the shelves behind Wilson. "Not getting stinking drunk with you last night after you told me Sam dumped you was wrong. It’s been a long time since I had to juggle friends and girlfriends. I’m rusty.”

Wilson reads between the lines. The rose is House’s way of saying he’s sorry. “Hey, I’m happy for you.”

“You locked yourself away in your office.”

“Busy. Had to tie up loose ends before going up to my folk’s place for Thanksgiving. I’m stopping off tonight to visit Danny.” Wilson suppresses a sigh. He was more enthusiastic about the trip when Sam was going, though he wasn’t certain how the family would have taken the news that he was engaged to his first wife.

“No overnight pass for kid brother?”

“He’s not up for Mom’s dry turkey this year.” Wilson hopes his answer strikes a casual note, and doesn’t set House’s crap detector ringing. The reality is different. Danny turned down the invitation, which was just as well. His mother’s brittle porcelain exterior was sure to chip under the pressure of preparing the perfect holiday dinner.

“I ate your mother’s cooking and it’s not ba—“ A faraway gaze replaces House’s eagle-eyed expression and he nods. “You spent most of the evening in the kitchen. Why not come with us to Julia’s? It’s for real this time. Cuddy promised not to skip out on me, and leave me holding a limp sandwich.”

Wilson considers the offer while he slips on his overcoat. His brother, Rick and his family are coming this year. Respectable domesticity would waft from them like department store perfume. His parents would expect a rundown on his life for the past year, and he would have to repeat it all for Rick or risk hurting his feelings. Mercifully, minimal information would satisfy his family and he could rehearse what he wanted to say on the drive up. However, a night with House and Cuddy’s family would probably be as much fun as the Grand Inquisition. House and Cuddy knew his marital woes, but Cuddy’s female relatives would most likely fall prey to matchmaking syndrome at the sight of a single doctor. They would try to hook him up with a friend of a friend with a great personality. When the ordeal was over, he would go home to his empty loft. The last few nights without Sam had been horrible.,

“Thanks, but the family is expecting me.” Wilson buttons his coat, picks up his briefcase and the rose. Points the bloom at House, and waves him out of the office so he can lock the door. “I’ll drop this off at St. Janine’s desk on the way out. I paid for a dozen roses, I want her to enjoy a dozen roses. See you next week, House.”

* * *

Wilson knocks on the colonial style door. It’s thrown open almost immediately.

“Jimmy! Thank God you’re here.”

“Rick.” Wilson tries to match his brother’s candescent smile with his own, but it’s no contest. He’s always thought they looked alike, taking after his father, but Rick is blessed with a killer grin and an easy laugh. Everyone in the family calls Rick the handsome one.

The anxious feeling growing in the pit of his stomach since he drove off the highway hikes up a notch. There’s a favor lurking in the greeting.

Rick steps aside to allow Wilson in. Gives him an affable pat on the back, but doesn’t offer to take his travel bag. Just shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Mom’s getting… you know, wound up, and Dad has retreated to his office. Your typical Wilson family holiday.”

Wilson drops his case next to the stairs and hangs up his coat and jacket. “It’s too quiet. Where are your kids?”

“What’s that?” Rick’s nervously rubs the back of his neck.

Not the right question. Wilson recognizes Rick’s stalling tactic, answering a question with a question. He unbuttons his cuffs and leisurely rolls up his sleeves while he waits for an answer.

“Alexandra was invited on a ski trip with her high school friends, and Gwen took it upon herself to chaperone them. Bill is spending Thanksgiving with his girlfriend’s family.”

“They’re growing up fast.”

“That’s what Mom said. You know how much she dotes on her only grandchildren.”

 _Only grandchildren_. Wilson feels suddenly uncomfortable. _Loser,_ echoes in his head. He shakes off the sensation. Rick doesn’t mean anything.

“Just you, Jimmy? Mom and Dad thought you were bringing someone. Don’t tell me you’re still in mourning for that woman who died? It's been, how long? Over a year?” Rick places a comforting hand on Wilson’s shoulder. “You gotta move on with your life, bro. I don’t want to put any pressure on you, but I know it hurts Mom to see you alone.”

Wilson shrugs the hand away, and sidesteps the advice. “I’ll see what I can do to help Mom in the kitchen. You take care of Dad.”

* * *

His mother tolerates a kiss on the cheek, but she swipes the back of her hand over it. Wilson isn’t sure if she’s wiping the touch of his kiss away or the sweat that drips from her temple. Rick’s right. She is worked up about something. With practiced ease, he checks on the turkey, and takes over peeling the yams for her. Her hands are trembling.

To distract her, he asks about the serving dishes. Her tense posture eases as she hunts through the cabinets.

His parents’ home has magical powers. Wilson sheds his role of doctor and department head, and takes on the job of dutiful middle son. When all the food is roasting, baking or bubbling, he opens a bottle of sparkling cider and pours the effervescent liquid into two glasses. He offers one to his mother.

“That was for dinner. The fizz will be gone.”

Despite the sweetness, the cider is refreshing—a counterpoint to the suffocating warmth of the kitchen.

He’d prefer to swallow down a scotch, but it’s been decades since there was any in the house. Not that it would hurt to check through the cupboards while he was staying. A quick spot-check of the medicine cabinet would also be in order.

“Dinner is almost ready,” he says while his mother sips at her drink. “You’re disappointed that Gwen and the kids didn’t show.” He expects tears to well up in her eyes.

His mother shakes her head, and answers resignedly, “They’re in college. You’re the only one of my children or grandchildren who consistently comes home for Thanksgiving.”

All the members of his family display a talent for saying one thing and meaning another. Wilson ignores the reference to Danny. He steps cautiously around the minefield of subjects that could possibly set off his mother, and takes cover under the guise of scapegoat. “I should have arrived earlier and helped you make the meal. It’s too much work for you to do on your own.”

“Don’t you start!” His mother slams down the tumbler. “Your father and I are not ready for the old age home.”

“What?” Wilson spreads his hands. “I meant—“

“I know what you meant. I listened to Rick carp all day long about how the two of you worry about us. I’ve had about all I can take. The house isn’t too large. We have enough money to splurge on a cleaning service and a gardener if we want. The stairs are no trouble to climb. I’m barely sixty-eight.”

“The new fifty-eight.” Wilson says to deflect.

No one is more sincere than his brother, but Rick has a knack for under and overdoing his concern. Rick should have given him a heads up when he arrived, but that’s not his style. And claiming innocence wouldn’t earn Wilson any points with his mother. “Clearly, you have everything under control. Rick and I were wrong. I’ll talk to him.” The timer on the stove dings. “Why don’t you call Dad and Rick to the dining room, and I’ll serve up the soup.”

* * *

Alone in the kitchen, Wilson washes the last pot and wedges it among the others draining in the dish rack. He grabs the edge of the counter and stares at the empty sink. After the shaky start, the evening went better than he expected. There was no shouting or recriminations. A frosty silence had reigned over the table. If past experience was any example, a thaw should set in by morning.

Wilson reshuffles his plans for the long weekend. Tomorrow, after lunch, he’ll tell his folks there’s a medical emergency at the hospital and head back to New Jersey. His desolate loft is more appealing than he remembered.

* * *

 _"That was one hell of a dirty trick, Jimmy. Getting out of Dodge on the pretext of a dying patient. I can’t get away with what you do."_

Rick’s voice is a fuzzy but comprehensible on his cell phone’s headset.

Wilson decelerates for the off-ramp’s sharp curve. He’s not going to let Rick get to him, now that he’s free. “CFO’s never hold emergency meetings?

 _"Not the day after Thanksgiving. Look, I was kidding before. You handled your disappearing act well, and your sincerity was believable. Mom and Dad don’t suspect a thing."_

Praise from his big brother comes as an unexpected surprise. As Wilson brakes to a halt at a red light, he spots his quarry. A giant gas station sign nearly stuck in the clouds. It appears to be at the other end of town, before the on-ramp. Perfect.

“Why’d you call, Rick? Not that I want to cut you off…” He did, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud.

 _"I wanted to talk to you. We never have a chance. I’m taking a few days off…”_

Wilson loses track of what Rick says when he spots an RV filling up his rear view mirror. It’s coming on too fast…

 _”Could you spare some time…”_

The screech of peeling rubber precedes the thunderous crunch of steel, and Wilson’s car bounds into the intersection. His body rocks and the seat belt bites into his shoulder. The air bag in the steering wheel inflates, but either there’s something wrong, or time is moving in slow motion.

The car skids and drifts toward a light pole. He braces for the crash, but a car in the cross traffic smashes into his passenger door. His car spins. Wilson is a marionette. Centrifugal force yanks his strings. The side of his head smashes repeatedly into the side window. There’s a smear of blood on the glass.

 _“Jimmy? Jimmy?! Are you there? What’s…?!"_

The headset flies off as the car ricochets into a pick-up.

That’s the last thing Wilson sees, or hears, or feels.

* * *

  
The turkey sandwich House constructs for his lunch is a thing of beauty. The ratio of protein to starch, and savory to tart are the culinary equivalent of a golden rectangle. While spreading a slab of bread with mayonnaise, he hears Cuddy’s phone ring somewhere in the bowels of her home.

“Ignore it,” he shouts into the interior.

Bare feet pad on the hardwood floor. She’s racing to get it. “Could be important.” Cuddy sings back.

House’s shoulders droop in disgust, and volleys back, “That’s why you pretend it’s not ringing.”

He continues with his project, half-listening to Cuddy talk. Sounds like business. House caps the sandwich with the bread, and selects the largest, sharpest knife hidden in the utensil drawer. He looks up. There’s a change in her voice. Her responses are curt and pitched low. House leans against the counter. Her footsteps alert him that she's coming to the kitchen. A moment later she arrives, her hair slightly mussed, and wearing the short, silky robe he likes. However, the early morning blush he had put on her cheeks was gone.

She raises her hands beseechingly. “Everything is all right.”

House eyes his sandwich and places the knife down. Something tells him, everything isn’t all right, and he’s about to lose his appetite. “What?”

“Wilson was in a car accident.”

A tight band around his chest constricts his breathing. “How bad?”

“Nothing major. When the EMT's brought him in, he was in shock, had a stage 3 concussion and his left shoulder dislocated. An MRI confirmed a herniated disc. They're holding him over for observation, and he’s in a lot of pain, but he should get released tomorrow.”

“Wilson’s not to be moved until I examine him first. Where is he?” House shoves the knife back into the drawer and marches to the bedroom to get his clothes. Cuddy follows behind.

“Upstate New York.” She undoes the tie on her robe. “I’ll drive.”

* * *

  


The hospital room is dimly lit to reflect the late hour. Wilson adjusts the strap on his sling, then concentrates on lying motionless, staring at the ceiling. The less he moves, the better he copes with the hammers in his head and the chorus of aches throbbing through his body.

He hears Rick yawn, and the flipping of magazine pages. The fact that Rick discovered which hospital he was in, and sits by his bedside, is touching. It’s not characteristic of him, but the boredom is.

“No point sticking around. Why don’t you go back home.” Wilson’s voice is missing the ring of authority. It’s weak, and he might be slurring his words. He’s not sure.

“After the scare you gave me, little brother, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got your back.”

Wilson winces. “Nobody deserves my back.” That sounds too martyr-like. “Except serial killers.”

“What about the hunter in Bambi?”

Rick was good at this. Wilson ponders the suggestion. “A lot of children were scarred for life after watching that movie.”

“And yet, Disney keeps making a bundle killing off parental figures. The executives deserve wrenching back pain.”

Wilson chuckles and immediately regrets it as a warning flare streaks from his back down his leg. About to close his eyes, he hears a man and woman arguing outside the room. The concussion must be affecting his hearing. How could House and Cuddy know he’s here? He shifts so he can see Rick’s face. “Did you tell anyone about my accident?”

Vision blurry, Wilson makes out two dark slashes on Rick’s forehead knitting together. “No. Was I supposed to?”

Before he has a chance to answer, a tall figure bobs into the room. House’s list causes his head to spin, and he feels seasick.

“You’re in a hospital, idiot. You should know it’s the last place to hide. Cuddy is more connected than a mafia don.”

“We came as soon as we heard.” Cuddy adds.

A small arm points at his face. “Moosey!”

The epithet is endearing, but Rachel’s high-pitched greeting hurts his ears. He must have grimaced because Cuddy jiggles Rachel in her arms and shushes her, murmuring an explanation, and kissing her forehead.

“Kiss Moosey and make him better, Mommy!” squeals Rachel.

“Yeah, Mommy, I’m up for a threesome,” adds House .

Rick is on his feet. “Here, let me take her. I’m good with children.”

“Hand Rachel over before Ricky changes his mind.” House raises his cane and points. “He doesn’t have Wilson’s permanently gooey heart. Donated any spare organs recently, Ricky?”

“House!” Cuddy chimes in with Wilson.

“Is this an in-joke I should know about?” Rick asks.

To avoid his liver becoming the center of attention, Wilson quickly says, “Cuddy, this is my brother Rick.”

Pleasantries are exchanged and Rachel transfers from Cuddy’s arms to Rick’s. “You’re sure she isn’t a bother?”

“It’s a pleasure. I miss holding my children. They outgrew this stage years ago.” Rachel’s head is already on his shoulder. “There's nothing like family.”

“Is that why Wilson’s parents aren’t here? They’re with your kids?” House asks.

“Actually, Jimmy and I decided to keep his accident a secret from them. Didn’t want to upset Mom.”

When House looks at him for confirmation, Wilson tilts his head slightly to signal agreement. His brain must still be swishing in his head. He doesn’t remember any discussion.

“Well, I’ll leave you three alone for a little while so you can have a nice chat.” Rick walks out of the room, but his voice carries from the hallway. It’s hushed and soothing. “Would you like to hear a story, Rachel? Do you know about Bambi, sweetheart?”

Wilson stifles a snort. His brother’s wicked sense of humor almost matches his best friend’s.

“Something funny, Rocky Raccoon?” House leans in close and studies him. “Those shiners aren’t humorous to me. Who is the President of the United States?”

“Obama,” Wilson answers. Truth is, the President’s first name is playing hide and seek in his head.

“You’re giving me only his last name? That’s not up to your prissy standards.” House looks concerned.

“You didn’t ask for a full name.” Wilson protests, but he feels mortified.

What did you eat for breakfast?”

“Who’s to say? It was hospital food.”

House brightens. “Atta, boy.”

“I’m fine, House. I’m scheduled for release tomorrow.”

“Wilson is in good hands, House. I checked over his chart. The staff is monitoring him closely.” Cuddy hands over paperwork.

“’Kay.” House grudgingly mumbles as he leafs through the tests and notes. He drops it at the foot of the bed and drags Rick’s chair closer, ignoring Cuddy. “So, give. What does the other guy look like?”

“Not a guy, _guys._ I really don’t remember.” Fatigue is gnawing at Wilson from the inside out, but House’s interest in what happened perks him up. “One minute I was waiting at a red light, the next I was a human pinball.”

“No surprise you lost control. I’ve seen your go-kart skills. What happened to the Volvo?”

Wilson sorts through his memories. His rally is fading. Weariness threatens to smother him. “Towed. Rick spoke to the police.” He can’t think of the right word. When he gives up, it comes. “Totaled, the car was totaled.”

Cuddy gently places her hand on his good shoulder.

The last words he hears before drifting to sleep are hers.

“Since you’re getting released tomorrow, we’ll stay overnight and drive you home.”

* * *

With all the documents signed, Wilson sits stiffly in the visitor’s chair, waiting for his ride. He’s eager to escape the hospital.

“There you are. Ready to go?” Rick is standing in front of him. Either he fell asleep or his brother conjured a spell and materialized.

“Yes. I’m waiting for House and Cuddy.”

“It was awfully good of them to offer, but we talked last night after you fell asleep. Did you see her car? It’s a shoebox, and with Rachel, and Rachel’s belongings, there wasn’t much room left for you. Besides, why should they spend their money on a hotel room when I’m here? I told them to go home, and I’ll take care of you.”

“What about Mom and Dad?” Wilson is a little flustered. If he did have to endure hours of travel, he'd prefer House’s company along with his his pithy comments to liven up the journey. “Aren’t they wondering what happened to you? What about your family? Don’t you have to get home?”

“Took a page out of your book, bro. Told Mom I have to prepare for an important board meeting on Monday. And did you forget what I told you? Gwen and the kids are away.”

Before Wilson can stop him, Rick raps his knuckle on the side of his head. “Hello? Anybody in there?”

His headache howls in indignation. “Ow! Richard!”

“Uh-oh, you’re calling me by my full name. I’m sorry, Jimmy. I forgot about your concussion.”

Rick is crouching next to him. He’s so close Wilson can make out his brother’s stricken face clearly.

“Go ahead and say it. I’m a jerk.”

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah, it’s not okay.” Rick stands up, jams his hands into the pockets of his pants and paces. “That’s what I always do. Forget about you and Danny and put my own needs first. I’m a selfish bastard.”

Just as Wilson is beginning to feel queasy and the pounding in his head ramps up, Rick stops moving. “I had hoped we could have quality time together, reconnect. Take another shot at being the big brother you deserve.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe it’s too late. If you want, I could call your friends and beg off. Doesn’t matter if I look like a louse to them. You’re the only one whose opinion counts. You’re family.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Wilson really doesn’t. He’s touched. Edging out of the chair, he signals to Rick not to help him. “You still own that big Mercedes?”

A shy smile peeks out from Rick’s face. “Traded up for a bigger one.”

“Show me how well it performs on the New Jersey Turnpike.”

* * *

  
The first few days at home are quiet. Wilson indulges in bed rest, but his inner physician nags him to spend more time walking. Not relishing any more pain, he decides an awkward samba step to the bathroom is more than enough exercise, and pencils in a field trip to the to the kitchen for the following day.

Which in his foggy brain, may have turned into the day after tomorrow.

His brother has a surprisingly good bedside manner. He coaxes Wilson to eat and brings him a choice of acetaminophen or Vicodin if he so much as blinks from a twinge of pain.

Wilson worries that Rick will get bored, but Rick assures him that the television and computer provide more than enough stimulation. Plus, there’s House.

“House has been here?”

“Several times. Don’t you remember?”

A hazy image of House towering over him swims in his memory. “Yeah.” Wilson bluffs. He doesn’t want to alarm Rick. He’s curious to know why House would want to spend time with Rick and not with him. He asks calmly, “What have you two been doing?”

“Video games. He beat the pants off me. And he brought over porn.” Rick leers. “Gwen would have teared my guts out with her bare hands if I so much as sneaked a _Playboy_ into the house. Hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to return the favor, and shopped online with your credit card. My replacement cards haven’t caught up with me.”

On the drive home, Rick had reluctantly explained why he couldn’t produce a credit card when they stopped for gas. Wilson had to pry the information out of him. Not wanting to risk adding to Rick’s discomfort, he refrained from asking for it back. “It’s fine, but you need to have a talk with William about his friends.”

“First thing I’m doing when he returns from his trip.” Rick looks over his shoulder, then grins at Wilson and rubs his hands in glee. “Doorbell. Must be House for another death match. I’ll tell him you’re asleep so he doesn’t bother you.”

Wilson envies the spring in Rick’s step as he leaves. His intermittent tinnitus from the concussion may have obscured the sound of the doorbell, but Wilson questions if he heard right. House used the doorbell?

* * *

A week after his accident Wilson’s back and shoulder are giving off a low voltage buzz that can be managed with low doses of acetaminophen, but he can’t shake the irritating symptoms of his concussion. Nausea, blurred vision, and a nasty headache have taken a parasitic hold. He’s in MTBI territory, and knows patience is the only treatment. Unfortunately, depression, insomnia, and irritability are also a part of the package.

He zombie-walks to the kitchen, and braces himself for what he will find there. He squints in order to bring the great room into focus and sighs. The place earns a seven on the pain scale, creeping up from yesterday's six-and-a-half. Wilson uses the numerical system to gauge the chaos Rick has created, but it also adequately reflects the pain he feels for his formerly pristine home’s slovenly appearance.

Dishes are piled in the sink. Dirty pots filled with greasy water are arrayed on the counter, which is a mystery to Wilson. His brother isn’t a cook, and all he recollects eating is varied takeout with a definite bias toward pasta and pizza.

That’s when he spots confirmation. Several pizza boxes are piled on the hearth. His eyes wander from them to an assortment of open cartons on the floor. Like ancient drinking wells, metropolises constructed of books, video games, and DVDs spring up around them. Identical shirts in different colors drape neatly over the sofas. A basket of dirty laundry hides under the dining table.

As Wilson checks the dishwasher, a key turns in the front door’s lock.

“Jimmy, boy! You’re up!” Rick’s beaming his toothy smile. Two boxes are under his arm, and he pats a pocket in his coat. “I brought in the mail for you.”

Wilson fans his right arm over the mess. “You were supposed to clean this up.”

A hurt expression crosses Rick’s face. “I’m organizing.”

“The pizza boxes? What about the kitchen? All you have to do is load the dishwasher and push a button. Why is it empty?”

“You’re the kitchen maven. Thought I’d leave it for you when you got better.” Rick shrugs. “Besides, I’m not good with mechanical things. Whenever Gwen goes out of town, she leaves sticky notes on all the appliances with instructions.”

“But you’re damn good with electronics.” Wilson points to one of the clusters on the floor. “Lower Manhattan is constructed entirely out of video games. This is not like you. Your home is like a museum. Every item waxed down so it’s never out of place.”

“This isn’t my place, and as your free nursemaid, I thought you’d cut me some slack.” Rick isn’t beaming any more. He takes a stack of books and dumps them carelessly into a box. “You want clean, I’ll give you clean.” A column of DVDs follows the books.

“Rick, be reasonable.” Wilson backpedals. “I could trip and fall. So could you.”

More items tumble into another container. “No problem. Now that you’re getting better, I thought we could have fun, but you’d rather have a cleaning woman than a brother.” Rick’s mouth presses into a straight line while he haphazardly tosses items into cartons.

Wilson runs his fingers over his forehead. The headache that had lain dormant all morning long wakes up from the clatter.

He had forgotten how much Rick took after their mother. When he was upset, his expression was identical to hers. And when he didn't get his way, or asked to do something he didn't want to do, out came the guilt card. Wilson leans his right hip against the kitchen island to lessen the ache in his left leg.

“Rick, don’t do this.”

“I suppose you want me to leave?”

Yes, yes he does. He wants his house back, and his House back. “Richard, shouldn’t Gwen and the kids be home by now?”

Rick turns away and bows his head. “They’re home. They’ve been home all along.”

“What’s that?”

“Gwen kicked me out.” Rick wheels around. His face is a study in misery. “I lost my job. You know, the economy. Twenty-one years of marriage meant nothing to her if I couldn’t support her lavish lifestyle.

“I made up the story about the credit cards. They didn’t get stolen. They’re at their limits. I burned through my savings and racked up charges on my cards in order to keep up the payments on my cars, the mortgage, and the kids’ tuition.”

“Rick, I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but when you were injured, for the first time in a long while, I felt needed. I went a little crazy with your credit cards. Drowned my sorrows in a shopping spree like a lonely housewife, but I had good intentions. I wanted to entertain your friend House so he would spend time at your place in case you took a turn for the worse.”

Wilson risks his life weaving through detritus to reach his brother. None of his family are very touchy-feely. He’s surprised and suppresses a grunt of pain when Rick drops his head on his good shoulder. A small, moist patch on his shirt clings to his skin.

Rick chokes out through his tears, “Forty-five years old and I have no place to go. I’m a failure, Jimmy.”

  


* * *

A form of, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” is tacitly agreed upon. Rick doesn’t discuss his personal life, and Wilson acts like last week’s conversation never happened. The clutter slowly transfers from the living room to the spare bedroom, and Wilson averts his eyes when he walks past. The neighbor’s teenage daughter is more than happy to get overpaid to do the dishes and laundry.

“Rick?” Wilson calls out from his bedroom as he stands in front of the mirror, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. There’s no response. He thought he heard the front door, but it must be the tinnitus playing tricks with his hearing. Some of the aftereffects of his concussion are lingering, dizziness and headaches, but for the most part, they are minor distractions. At the end of the week his sling comes off, and his back pain has let up enough to regain the semblance of his former gait. He hopes to return to a half-day schedule on Monday.

“Rick?” Wilson ambles down the hallway to the great room. The place is quiet, peaceful. His brother must have gone out for coffee or a newspaper. Rick surprised him the other day by bringing back a latte, so Wilson holds off brewing a pot, and heads for the orange juice in the fridge. As he reaches for the door, his feet lose traction and he scrabbles to gain balance, but with one arm confined, he flaps like a wounded bird and drops to the floor, landing rump first. He screws up his eyes and moans as his back screams bloody murder. He doesn’t move. He can’t. Until the angry nerves settle down he’s stuck here. He bites his lip and presses his cheek against the cool metal surface of the fridge.

***

The rattle of the front door is a welcoming sound. His brother is back.

“Wilson?” House is kneeling next to him, inspecting his pupils. “What the hell happened?”

Wilson tries to wave him off. “The floor was slippery and I fell. Landed on my ass. I need a little time to pull myself together.”

House sits down beside him. Rubs his hand over the wood surface, sniffs and licks a finger.

“Contrary to any rumors, you shouldn’t eat off my floor.”

“I’m not. I’m running a scientific test.” House leans his cane against the kitchen island and rubs his thigh. “The fall could have done more damage to your back. Can you move your toes?”

Wilson complies. It’s easier than arguing. “I’m a human sack of agony. Other than that, I’m fine.”

“You have fifteen minutes to get off the floor, or I call an ambulance.”

“You’re timing me? You’re a doctor, why don’t you do something productive and get the Tylenol from my bedroom?“

“I’ll do you one better.” House produces a small folded envelope from his jeans, and shakes out a pill. “Vicodin.”

Wilson’s pain switches off for a brief moment at the shock of what House holds in his hand. “You’re using?”

“No. It’s a long story.” He waves the pill, his eyes never flinching away from Wilson’s stare. “Take it.”

Wilson had avoided the use of narcotics, but if he ever wants to get off the floor… He snatches the tablet and dry swallows.

Footsteps echo from the front hall. "Jimmy? House? What's going on?” Rick has a look of consternation on his face.

“Wilson should be asking the same of you. What were you thinking? You could have killed him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.” House stretches out his bad leg and bends the other. “After twenty years, I’m still unraveling what makes Wilson tick. The key had to be his family. I’ve seen him with Danny, but only met you once. With Wilson out of commission, I signed up for Team Ricky to get up close and personal.” House gets Wilson’s attention. "I never realized what I was missing, growing up without siblings, but you lucked out. Everyday must have been a funhouse of entertainment with one brother a schizophrenic and the other a psychopath. Bet all the cool kids hung out at your house.”

House’s pronouncement stuns Wilson. His focus had always fallen upon Danny, and he’d spent very little time in his older brother’s company. Wilson had chalked up Rick’s detachment to being the oldest, not wanting his younger brothers embarrassing him, ambition, dozens of other reasons. Seeing Rick from House’s perspective makes sense, but still, this is Rick they’re talking about. “House, he’s not a case, he’s my brother.”

“You're not going to let House insult me, are you? Throw him out, Jimmy,” Rick urges, his voice ice.

“House is my friend.” Wilson says. He turns to House. Could be the Vicodin kicking in, but he’s bewildered. “Why do you suspect Rick had anything to do with my fall?”

“The floor was deliberately smeared with butter.” House states simply.

“You’re accusing me of harming my brother because I dropped butter on the floor while making breakfast? Accuse me of being a klutz, but I’m not out to hurt anyone.” Rick folds his arms in front of his chest.

“Wilson buys tub butter, not cubes that could break open. Unless you stand in front of the fridge eating it right out of the container like Ben and Jerry's, there’s no possibility of it messing the floor. The range, oven, and toaster are on the other wall.” House explains.

“Okay, you got me.” Ricky raises his hands in surrender. “But it was nothing more than a prank. Now that Jimmy is feeling better, I wanted to get back at him for nagging me last week. He needed to be brought down a peg or two. No harm intended.”

“You never heard of second impact syndrome?” House’s voice contains an edge of suspicion. “A second blow could have killed him.”

Wilson can’t absorb what he's hearing. “House, go easy on Rick. He’s going through a bad patch right now.” He looks at his brother for permission to continue. Rick slumps his shoulders and nods.

“Rick lost his job because of cutbacks, and his wife’s filing for divorce.”

“Which is why he suddenly has time to mooch off his younger brother.” House is unshakable in his disapproval.

“I have an extra room. What are a few more expenses?” Wilson thinks guiltily of the Rick’s online purchases. He has yet to see the bill. “You stayed for months.”

House levers up from the floor, walks to Rick, and grasps his arm. Rick tries to squirm away, but House holds firm, pushing up the sleeve. “I never spent your money on a Rolex.”

“Rick?” Wilson waits for a response. “You didn’t.”

“What if I did? I’m not getting paid to be at your beck and call 24/7, and after the way Gwen treated me, I deserved one small indulgence.”

“For the way you treated Gwen, she’s the one that deserves a Rolex.” House takes a step toward Wlson. “Did you speak to Gwen to confirm if anything Rick told you was true?"

"No."

"Well, I did.”

“You’ve been snooping into my affairs?” Rick asks, incredulous.

“Apparently, he investigated by my credit card bills as well. That’s House’s specialty.” Wilson says wearily.

House leans on his cane and bends toward Rick, doing an excellent imitation of a district attorney. “You weren’t let go because of any restructuring. You were fired for insider trading.”

Rick looks sullen. “It was a misunderstanding. I’m innocent.”

“That’s the same thing you said to your wife when she found the wrong shade of lipstick on your collar.”

“I explained the situation to Gwen. It was nothing more than an overenthusiastic employee showing her appreciation for a raise.”

“And the same color lipstick was smeared on the inside of your boxer briefs.”

Wilson can’t prevent a hitched gasp as he struggles to get to his feet. He needs to look his brother in the eye, and hides his disappointment in a question. “You threw twenty years of marriage away on an office romance?”

“You’re calling me out for one little infidelity when you’re a three time loser?”

Rick’s remark stings, but Wilson holds his tongue. He’s a sprinter not a marathon runner when it comes to arguing with family members. He can limit damage by retreating into silence and wearing a dumbfounded expression.

“Wilson’s problem is that he can’t differentiate between the real deal and Jessica Rabbit, while you know exactly what you want. A mate who will turn a blind eye to your serial cheating until she can’t avoid the truth anymore.”

“That’s enough, House,” Rick says.

“It’s not enough. I’ve just begun.” House says.

Rick walks over and puts a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. “I never meant to hurt you, Jimmy. You must believe that. House is blowing everything out of proportion. Ask him to leave and I’ll explain everything.”

House flourishes the envelope that contains the Vicodin pills, and drops it on the dining table face up. “Why not start by explaining what you were doing with Wilson’s medication?”

Rick’s bold handwriting scrawls across the white paper. _A present. Anytime you want more, call._

“You gave House Vicodin?!” Wilson is about to hyperventilate. He turns to House. “And you took it?!”

House smiles. “Settle down, Jimmy. I found the envelope in my jacket after I got home. I never touched a single tablet.”

Rick shakes his head in annoyance. “Another instance of House distorting my good intentions. He told me why he stopped using Vicodin, but the ibuprofen clearly wasn’t working, and your prescription was untouched. Why shouldn’t I help him out? He’s a doctor and off narcotic medications for over a year. Surely he can manage a few pills without getting addicted.”

Wilson expects House to jump down Rick’s throat, but he says nothing. Just repeatedly releases his cane as if it were a missile from a bomber, and watches the point drum a rumbling tattoo against the floor.

Wilson flutters the envelope under Rick's nose. "You don't tell someone who suffers from chronic pain and an addiction to narcotic pain relievers, 'Anytime you want more, call.' You’re not stupid, Richard. You were playing a dangerous game giving House my meds; risking our medical licenses.” Wilson can forgive almost anything, but not this. He takes a deep breath and thinks twice before continuing. “Pack your bags.”

“You’re choosing _him_ over me?”

“You’ll always be family, Rick, but yeah, I am.”

Rick shakes his head and emits a strangled laugh. “Wait until I tell our parents.”

House comes to life. “I have friends in high and low places. Say one word against Wilson, or pursue one of your Machiavellian campaigns against anybody in the Northern hemisphere, and you’ll spend the rest of your life locked in a slowly rotting body, unable to tell the doctors where to find your misplaced DNR.”

Rick pales to an unpleasant shade of green. “Give me ten minutes.” Rick says, his voice as cold and calm as frozen lake. He disappears down the hallway.

Wilson drags out a chair from the dining table and eases into it. House fetches two beers from the refrigerator and joins him. They wait in silence until Rick emerges, a suitcase in each hand. Wilson realizes one is his, but doesn’t say anything.

“Goodbye, James. Goodbye, House.”

Sending his brother away hurts to the bone, but there’s nothing Wilson can do. “’Bye, Richard.”

“Dick,” issues from House mouth. He tilts his chair to watch Rick’s exodus. “Leave your key on the way out,” he adds. After a long swig from the bottle, House addresses Wilson. “Change the locks.”

Still reeling from the day’s revelations, Wilson nods in agreement. “So, hanging out with Rick was all an act? You were worried about me? That was a nifty bit of entrapment you pulled with the pills, by the way; you never talk to anyone about Mayfield.”

“You needed to see Rick for what he is. After Tritter and my hallucinations, nothing could remove your head from your ass faster than the mention of Vicodin.”

“What first made you wary? Credit card purchases shouldn't send up a red flag.” Wilson looks pointedly at House. “Nearly a third of my charges go to feed you.”

“I was stalking him soon after your accident. Rachel clued me in.”

“Cuddy’s Rachel?”

 _“'And a little brat shall lead them.’_ Rachel had nightmares after we got back from the hospital. She woke up in the middle of the night, screaming ‘Moosey shot. Don’t hurt Moosey.’ Cuddy and I thought she was talking about you at first, but you and every four-legged animal is a moosey to her. Meanwhile Cuddy picked up _Bambi_ at the gift shop to read to Rachel, and holy hell broke loose by page two. Seems the version Rick told Rachel resembles a Steven King novel, and he cast Jack Nicholson as the hunter.”

“I can’t believe he did that. I mean I do, but I don’t. How can he mess with a little girl?”

“Rachel might be little, but her backbone is stronger than yours. If he could make her cry, I knew you’d be a sobbing wreck.”

Wilson offers House a wry smile. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

House doesn’t smile back. “So, we’re okay? We’re talking blood here.”

“You did the right thing.” Wilson knows he did the right thing too, sending Rick packing, but he feels worse than when Sam left. He’s down to one brother again.

House rises, gimps down the hall and when he returns his cell phone is flipped open. “You shouldn’t be alone after that last fall, and there’s nothing wrong with my old room that a change of sheets and fumigation won’t repair. Cuddy has a Disney fest planned throughout the week to immunize Rachel against abandonment issues. I might as well hang out with you.”

Wilson lifts his head and smiles.

House thumps down the hall again. He’s on the phone speaking to Cuddy. “Rick took off, and Wilson needs coddling or cuddling, I can never remember which. Yeah, yeah, Wilson’s not an egg. I‘ll go with the second.”

The sound of a door snicks, and House’s voice ratchets down to an indistinguishable murmur.

Wilson gingerly walks to his bedroom. He sighs. As soon as he loses one exasperating person, he gains another. House will use his computer, strew videos throughout the living room, leave glass rings on every hard surface, drink his orange juice and milk right from the containers, purchase a global village’s worth of food on his credit card…

It’s going to be great.

  



End file.
